Babe (1995)

A+
SDG

If a key component of entertainment excellence
is rewatchability, then one of the surest ways to really plumb
the worth of a children’s book, movie, or TV show is for your kid
to become fascinated by it and insist on experiencing it again
and again for weeks or months — in the process subjecting you to
the same regimen. And then, several months later, to do it
again.

Artistic/Entertainment Value

Moral/Spiritual Value

Age Appropriateness

MPAA Rating

Caveat Spectator

With this kind of extended immersion comes a level of critical
awareness usually attained only by veteran film class instructors
and insomniacs. The small faults of modest entertainment that
could initially be overlooked become over time more and more
glaring, until the very word "Zoboo-Land" makes you want to
string a Kratt Brother up by his thumbs (and if you don’t know
what I’m talking about, be thankful). By the same token, the
subtle virtues of great entertainment become increasingly
resonant, until the mere thought of a throwaway expression on the
face of the candlestick in Beauty and the Beast brings a
silly grin to your own face.

When I first saw Babe in its theatrical run, I knew it
was a great film. Yet time and repeated exposure has only
enhanced my appreciation of and affection for this enchanting
barnyard fable of the pig with the "unprejudiced heart." A blurb
on the video box from critic Dann Gire of The Chicago Daily
Herald proclaims it "The Citizen Kane of talking pig
pictures." He is unquestionably right: More importantly, he would
probably still have been right if studios had been cranking out
talking-pig pictures at a rate of a dozen a year for the last
twenty years. (Certainly the subsequent release of the
catastrophically misconceived Babe: Pig in the City doesn’t
affect the original’s preeminent status.)

Babe even has what looks like an homage to Citizen
Kane — specifically, to the famous pull-back reveal in
Kane’s opening sequence. An early scene in Babe
opens with a shot of a beautifully decorated home interior, into
which a giant hand suddenly intrudes, and the camera pulls back,
revealing Arthur Hoggett (James Cromwell) leaning intently over a
meticulously crafted dollhouse, doing detail work. This shot
echoes the pull-back in Citizen Kane with a snow-covered
house that retreats from the camera to be revealed as a model in
a snow-globe in the hand of another old man, Kane himself. And,
like Kane’s snow-globe, Hoggett’s dollhouse suffers an
ignominious fate, though not as precipitously.

Homages to Citizen Kane? Maybe you’re thinking I’ve
watched this film one too many times. But the fact is that
Babe is much more than a fun kid flick with talking
animals. It’s wonderful moviemaking that delights on every level:
a triumph of art direction, acting and characterization, special
effects, scoring, pacing and rhythm, everything. One of the best
films of the nineties, one of the best family films of all time,
Babe is a masterpiece that’s satisfyingly true to the
charming quality of the original novel by Dick King-Smith. (Helping
capture the storybook feeling are chapter-like title cards read
by a trio of raucous mice, and the gentle though slightly edgy
narration of Roscoe Lee Browne, who’s been the voice of
comic-book heavy The Kingpin in Spider-Man cartoons.)

Here are just a few observations:

Production design. The sheer
look of Hoggett Farm is a wonder, from the crazy
architecture of the farmhouse with its towers and flying
buttresses, to the barn with its heap of a thatched roof, low
stone walls, and soaring vaulted interior. Producer George Miller
says he asked production designer Roger Ford to design a farm
that would be a character in the film; and indeed, the farmhouse
seems to have a face, with windows for eyes.

Tucked away in its verdant valley, Hoggett Farm is wholly
persuasive and convincing, in spite of its architecture being
like no real farmhouse anywhere from England to New Zealand. In
point of fact the farm was built in Australia; but it feels as if
it could be at home in almost any English-speaking pastoral
countryside. Or if not, then it’s the fault of the
countryside.

The human touch. Unlike subsequent
talking-animal pictures (Eddie Murphy’s Dr. Dolittle
pictures; Cats and Dogs),
Babe is a movie in which the human leads matter as much as
the animals, or more so. Arthur Hoggett (James Cromwell) and his
wife Esme (Magda Szubanski) are not only utterly unique and
memorable characters, but are also a splendid couple with a
remarkable relationship.

Cromwell was nominated for an Oscar for his work as Arthur
Hoggett. With his long, lined face and thoughtful eyes, he
creates an indelible impression the sheep farmer — an achievement
even more remarkable in light of how little dialogue he has. Few
characters with so little to say have ever been so memorable.
(Ironically, Cromwell took the role thinking it would be an easy
part after scanning the script for his lines. Had he looked more
closely, he’d have discovered he’s in practically every
scene.)

But Magda Szubanski as Esme is even more extraordinary: With
her endless stream of inconsequential chatter and artless
delivery, she inhabits a character so prosaic, so
un-self-consciously unreflective, that it never for an instant
enters into her head even to wonder what lurks behind her
husband’s taciturn silences and terse monosyllables. She’s so
natural that Americans who don’t know her from anything else are
often surprised to learn that she’s Australia’s favorite
comedienne — that she could do or be anything other than Esme
Hoggett.

Effects and animal handling. Endless
pains went into training and shooting the enormous menagerie of
animals necessary to bring Babe and his farmyard friends to life;
and ground-breaking computer effects made them seem to lip-sync
the dialogue. Director Chris Noonan knew that for the film to
work, the effects would have to blend so seamlessly as to
disappear, so that audiences could simply accept the animals as
characters in a story. The stunning results won the film an Oscar
for special effects.

At any one time there had to be six pigs to play Babe — and
the pigs could only be used for a few weeks before they got too
big and had to be replaced. Almost 50 bottle-fed, lovingly raised
Large White Yorkshires (all tricked out in matching
toupées) played the lovable piglet (along with an
animatronic double created by Jim Henson’s Creature Shop). With
the help of Christine Cavanaugh’s voice-work, a single, charming
character emerges from all the behind-the-scenes
hugger-mugger.

Music. If you watch this film even a
couple of times, you’re going to be humming "Moonshine." This
folk-style tune, which provides the film’s theme, is actually
adapted (appropriately enough) from “Symphony No. 3 in C” by Camille Saint-Saëns,
and has been variously arranged throughout the film: from the
lullaby-like strains of the opening credits, to Arthur Hoggett’s
immortal Celtic jig, to the triumphant orchestral swells of the
denouement, and finally, over the end credits, the fast-forward
pop version performed by the mouse trio.

Other bits of music are equally well used. A scene in which
Babe and the duck Ferdinand attempt to sneak in and out of the
farmhouse without awakening the cat is perfectly accompanied by a
nifty piece from Edvard Grieg ("Lyric piece No. 28, Op. 47, No.
6") that progresses from quiet string-picking (as the animals
tiptoe back and forth) to orchestral frenzy (as chaos erupts), in
a manner reminiscent of the musical high points of the best
Warner Brothers cartoons, or even certain sequences in Fantasia (e.g., The Dance of the
Hours).

Great scenes. An attempt adequately to
comment on all of Babe’s noteworthy scenes (such as the
Citizen Kane tribute and Hoggett’s jig) would quickly
outweigh the original shooting script of the film. To pick just
one such moment out of a hat, there’s a wordless shot (easily
overlooked, but well worth noting) in a sequence with Hoggett
shearing his flock.

This moment, the final image in the scene, gives us a
low-angle shot of Hoggett standing framed against a golden sunset
and billowing cumulus clouds, throwing out the final fleece like
a blanket and allowing it to settle onto a stack of other
fleeces. For just a moment, the woolly fleece hangs in the air
amid the rolling clouds, with the sun’s rays shining through the
translucent wool from the midst of the clouds. It’s as if Hoggett
were rolling out the clouds themselves on the grass. Then he
straightens to survey his work. It’s pure visual poetry — a quiet
moment of movie magic.

Place. Hoggett Farm is more than a
picturesque backdrop for talking animals of various species. It’s
a rich setting where each species has a particular place and a
particular outlook — almost a native culture — similar to that of
other animals, but never quite the same, and always making sense
given the animal’s place on the farm.

In a way, Babe’s barnyard culture evokes another
magical film: Toy Story, with
the plaything culture and value system of its personified toys.
Yet Toy Story had basically one culture for all of Andy’s
toys. On Hoggett Farm, there are important contrasts, even
prejudices.

Take Rex and Fly, the border collies. Unlike the livestock,
they’re allowed in the house with "the bosses" (i.e., the
Hoggetts), and are valued not for anything they produce (wool or
eggs or milk), or as food, but for their work. "The bosses only
eat stupid animals," Fly explains to her puppies. The dogs
particularly regard the sheep as stupid, while the sheep consider
the dogs vicious "wolves." It’s a mark of the film’s subtlety and
nuance that neither of these prejudices is is simply baseless,
nor is either the whole truth.

The sheep and the cows have a stoic acceptance of their lot in
life: "The way things are," the cow says placidly, "is the way
things are." But Ferdinand the duck, who neither produces nor
works and knows that he exists only to be eaten, vehemently
rejects the status quo: "The way things are stinks!"

Ferdinand’s efforts to craft a new destiny for himself provide
a comic counterpoint for Babe’s own aspirations of taking on an
untraditional role. The duck is obssessed with making himself
useful, so he won’t be eaten: "Humans don’t eat cats. Why?
They’re indispensable. They catch mice. Humans don’t eat
roosters. Why? They make eggs with the hens and wake everyone up
in the morning. I tried it with the hens, it didn’t work. So I
turned to crowing…"

But the cat herself, a Persian named Duchess, doesn’t see her
own value in such utilitarian terms. "The cow’s here to be milked,
the dogs are here to help the boss’s husband with the sheep, I’m
here to be beautiful and affectionate to the boss…" she
purrs. (Notice that Duchess, the only all-indoor animal, speaks
of "the boss" and "the boss’s husband", whereas the other
animals speak of "the boss" and "the boss’s wife.")

In Babe, as in Cats and
Dogs, the cat is the heavy — a trend for which there is
some explanation, as I pointed out in my review of the latter
film. All the same, it’s fair to note that Babe softens
the stereotype by having the narrator note: "There are many
perfectly nice cats in the world, but every barrel has its bad
apples, and it is well to heed the old adage, ‘Beware the bad cat
bearing a grudge.’ "

The hero. Only Babe stands outside the
other animals’ various points of view, and for a unique reason:
As the lone pig on a sheep farm (won as a prize at a local fair),
Babe is an outsider with no preassigned place. Thus, he is
open-minded and free of preconceived notions. Adopted by the
border collie Fly, Babe is told that sheep are inferior and
stupid; yet he befriends Maa, the old ewe. Maa tells him that Fly
is a vicious wolf, but Babe knows her to be gentle and
loving.

Sometimes Babe’s lack of guile leaves him vulnerable to the
special interests and intrigues of other animals (Ferdinand,
Duchess). Yet in the end Babe has a lasting impact on animal
relations at Hoggett Farm, in ways that arise perfectly naturally
from plot points in the story. It’s here that this fable makes
its gentle points about respect and overcoming prejudices.

Babe inevitably invites comparisons to another porcine
protagonist, Wilbur of Charlotte’s Web (King-Smith’s novel has been called "a British
Charlotte’s Web"). Yet if anything, it’s Wilbur who suffers
from the comparison. Wilbur is a passive protagonist — a whiner
whose main goal in life is not to be eaten, and whose main
accomplishment is making friends with Charlotte, the crafty
spider whose PR "spin" saves Wilbur’s bacon. Wilbur may be the
main character of the story, but it’s Charlotte who’s the real
hero.

Babe, by contrast, is the hero of his own story: He takes his
fate in his own trotters, faces challenges, learns a life skill,
and contests the mutual prejudices of his barnyard world. He’s
spunky, personable, and polite to everyone.

He’s some pig.

The finale (spoilers). (If you haven’t
seen the film, postpone reading further until you have.)

All of the foregoing builds to the enormously satisfying
finale at the sheepdog trials, a scene Noonan approaches with the
same unrushed confidence as Hoggett himself. Hoggett knows he’s
got a brilliant animal, and Noonan knows he’s got a brilliant
scene.

The silence in this scene is riveting. Babe’s earlier triumphs
are scored by the orchestral strains of "Moonshine," but here the
whole film seems to hold its breath as Babe daintily trots the
course, putting the sheep through their paces. In the last
seconds of the climax, with the sheep safely in the fold and
Hoggett walking with his unhurried but determined stride to close
the gate, Noonan zeroes in on the gate, dramatic, rapid cuts
heightening the sense of moment, of anticipation — but then, just
before the gate clicks shut, he cuts to the back of the stands,
so that with the spectators we hear, rather than see, the latch
close: the proverbial pin dropping.

The spectators rise as one and burst into whoops and
cheers… and when you watch it, you want to do the same.
The judges rating the pig’s performance might as well be grading
the entire movie. Babe is a perfect 10.

Addendum:
On what is not the moral of the story (spoilers)

Babe’s key moral themes — treating
others with courtesy and respect, overcoming prejudices, facing
challenges, seizing opportunities, and so forth — are
inextricably bound up in its hero and its story, and have been
touched upon above.

However, for the sake of readers who may encounter a couple of
tiresome activist efforts to twist a popular movie into a tract
for this or that cause, a few words about what is not the
moral of this story may be helpful.

First, though, two caveats. One, if you haven’t yet seen the
film, stop reading now. Two, unless you are concerned about
activist efforts to misuse the film, you may find the following
paragraphs more annoying than helpful. Even though the two
activist misuses described are both refuted, you might enjoy the
film more not even knowing how some people misuse it, than
knowing both how they do it and why they are wrong.

With those caveats out of the way, here is the first point.
Some vegetarians and animal-rights activists try to claim
Babe as an anti-meat or animal-rights tract. This is
absurd. Hoggett Farm, and the Hoggetts themselves, are far too
delightful and endearing to allow any suggestion that the
existence of the farm and the lifestyle of the farmers are
somehow under fire in the movie. Ferdinand the duck may think
there’s something ghastly about duck à l’orange for
Christmas ("Christmas means dinner… dinner means
death — death means carnage! Christmas means
carnage!"). But Ferdinand is comic relief; his view is not
that of the movie.

That humans eat ducks and pigs is a cold truth that Babe at
first finds difficult to accept, but not one that he ultimately
challenges or transforms (as he does the mutual prejudices of the
animals). Even when Babe learns that his whole family has
probably already been butchered, he responds not with moral
outrage but bleak acceptance (bleak in part because he has been
led to doubt his special relationship with Hoggett). The movie
knows, in the end, that there’s nothing wrong with eating
animals.

Second, some social activists read Babe as a challenge
to every kind of absolute regarding social roles and
expectations; as if a pig doing the work of a sheep dog suggested
that sexual or familial roles were up for grabs. Belief in
absolutes regarding social roles is linked in this view with the
stern conservatism of Rex, who insists that every animal accept
his place and opposes Babe’s sheep-pig career.

This, too, is absurd. It’s all well and good for a pig to
learn to do the work of a sheep dog. But what about a duck trying
to do the work of a rooster? Can a duck "make eggs with the
hens"? If he tries to crow, is he not ridiculous? What about when
he starts trying to ring like an alarm clock? Does Babe
really imply that absolutely anyone can take on absolutely any
role? Or is the point rather that some roles can be stretched or
adjusted, while others can’t?

Women can fly fighter jets; twelve-year-olds can provide
technical support; girls can be altar servers. But not everything
is up for grabs. Marriage is always a husband and a wife; only
women can conceive and give birth; only men can receive Holy
Orders. Efforts to ignore or deny these constant truths are as
misguided as Ferdinand’s efforts to make eggs with hens.

That’s not to say, of course, that Babe itself makes
any such application. But plainly this is not remotely a tract
against absolutes in social roles. No one should be deterred by
this nonsense from seeing and enjoying this special film.